plans are made
by RebelzHeart
Summary: Natasha and Steve have a conversation, post-snap. Oneshot


She finds him in his current bedroom, head in his hands, bowed over, like the world's on his shoulders and he can't bear to get rid of it even as it crushes him.

Steve has always carried that look, in his own little way, where he insists on carrying the world's weight, insists because of his stupid moral obligations and his little motto _if I don't do it, who will_?

The compound is oddly quiet, and it's strange, because they never were the most talkative of people, the compound never had all that much chatter or noise, even when they weren't split into broken little bits based on ideals that both were true in their way but could never be properly reconciled.

She stands at the doorway for a moment, not stepping in, but enough that she could be seen if only he turned his head, waiting, watching, weighing her words, before she raps her knuckles twice on the doorframe and says, "Hey, soldier."

Steve isn't one to think before acting, Natasha knows that fact the way she knows the colour of her hair, but he always has this little stutter before he moves, like he's calculating the best way to move and then decides to go with gut instinct no matter what his brain tells him.

He unfolds like a bouncy castle being blown up, arms going to his sides as he stands up, a firm stance, ready position, and she'd been joking when she called him soldier but he's already building that armour around himself, Captain America, tall and proud.

"We need a plan," he says, and it's the first thing he's said to her since they watched the remains of the soldiers blow away in the wind.

Maybe it says something about Natasha that she'd anticipated this, been eager for this, even, but she's always been one for action, even if she was probably the best thinker of the group.

(Steve had been impulsive, Tony too cautious. Thor lived for a fight, Bruce would do anything to avoid it. And Clint—Clint's probably dead, she knows, and she won't let that hurt her, at least, not unless they fail and he can't be brought back. Clint had always been a fucking disaster, the only things keeping him together had been Natasha and Coulson, and she's the only one left of their little trio.)

"What are we thinking?" Natasha peels herself from the door, moving into the room, hands resting on her hips. "Will we be checking for allies or assume there isn't anyone left?"

"It's best to check for allies, first," Steve scrubs a hand over his face, "We'll have to divide into groups, one needs to check on the state of the outside world and see if there's anything we can do to help. The rest of us will focus on strategizing for the upcoming fight."

"Sounds good," Natasha nods her approval, and she isn't one for tells, but if Wanda were here, she'd be tapping her finger against her hip, absent-minded as she thought.

(Wanda's dead, now, too, the look on her face had been terrifyingly grateful as she melted into nothing, folded over Vision as though she were praying.)

"Stark probably had files," she notes, trying to think of any way they could access Fury's files without him alive. Probably not, especially with Stark's death, and she feels a bit cold at the remorse she feels and how it's mostly that they can't have Stark's skill set, not the man himself, "Luckily, we have Banner, who can probably access them."

(It doesn't mean much, though, she's always been good at compartmentalizing.)

"Sounds good," Steve echoes her sentiment for a moment.

They bounce ideas off of each other for a good hour, ten minutes in, Steve inviting her to sit down as he scribbles away on a notebook, ever old fashioned, habits gripping to him like lead on paper.

They scatter to carry out their plan, and Natasha isn't hopeful, but she has a list of orders to carry out, a neat little to-do list, and that's all she needs, right now, something to do.

(And so long as she has this, she doesn't need to grieve, because she can pretend, just like Steve's pretending, that they can fix this, that they're certain of that, as certain as she is that she can shoot a gun.

The list of things to do is long, and there's a lot to do, but that's okay, because so long as she has a purpose, so long as she isn't left to stew in her head, she can do this. She can fight, and, for now, she holds.)


End file.
